Magic and mayhem

by Bonnie Pockley

The last few days have been a mad tag team effort of running from one thing to the next. Thankfully, we have a few days together before our next run of activities so that the kids can settle back into a routine. It’s also been a period of remarkable milestones. Just this afternoon I found them playing down in the back of the garden by the raspberries and saw that they were delicately picking and eating the fruit, offering it to one another then going back for more. Later on, Inca came looking for us and handed us each flowers, one after the other, giggling and calling out Mamma or Dadda so that we’d know we were the recipient. Gone are my babies and only fleeting remnants of their early infancy remain as their bodies become more and more muscular and words tumble forth to break down the last vestiges of the communication barrier between us. Little can be mistaken now.

I dreamt of birds last night. Great flocks of birds. Wings splayed everywhere. Me amongst the lot. I woke and found a handful of feathers around the house and wondered if, during the night, something had got trapped inside – except, there was no evidence to suggest it. They had appeared like magic, as if a symbol of transformation, as if it was simply obvious that there had been a shedding of baby down to make way for larger wings.

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